


The Boy Who Swallowed A Star

by inkystars



Series: The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up Trilogy [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkystars/pseuds/inkystars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junior fashion designer Kurt Hummel and murder mystery novelist Blaine Anderson head to the foggy streets of London, the setting of their bestselling novel, in order to stitch together the mystery around the murderer who's stalked them since Paris, all the while dealing with an outpour of Anderson family secrets, a copycat killer, the return of an old foe, and what really happened in Venice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Swallowed A Star

(Cover art by sweet-peach-tea on tumblr)

**Part 1: Sinker**

**_Tea Cups and Biscuits and Murders, Oh My!_ **

_Written by Blaine Anderson and Judy Porcelain_

Chapter 1: An Interruption at the Salon 

It was a dark and stormy night when Elliott Grey first met and became intrigued by one Alexander Bergamot. 

It happened quite abruptly and was extremely to-the-point. Elliott Grey was an earl of significant fortune, and yet at the primed age of thirty-six he was mostly alone with his own company. He had acquaintances every now and then, but his primary enjoyment lied in riding, reading, dueling, and enjoying a good cup of tea. 

He was indulging in the lattermost of said activities in his favorite salon--the Maraschino Tea Room--when a peculiar young lad sat down at his table.

He was of a wiry build and seemed to have a certain energy thrumming just below the skin as he gazed at Elliott in a queer sort of way, his eyes fixated. Taking a sip of his tea from a personal cup rather than one of the establishments’, he opened the conversation with an extremely odd topic. 

“Have you heard of the murders occurring about town?”

***

The birds outside were chirping even though it was still dark. 

Kurt’s eyes slowly opened, eyes darting to the window. The sky was that cerulean color that it gets just before dawn, when the sun is still preparing it’s ascent. He blinked, eyes sliding over to the nightstand, where _Tea Cups and Biscuits and Murders, Oh My!_ sat, the cover flap bookmarking a few pages in--the only amount he’d been able to read the prior night before he had to shut it. 

He’d read the novel from cover to cover dozens of times and was intimately familiar with the story, but now it just left him feeling slightly hollow inside. 

Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he sat up in bed, stretching wide to twist out the cracks as the dream he’d been having started to slip from his memory like sand in a sieve. Something about someone leaning over him while he slept. 

He let the dream slide away instead of examining it. He was pretty sure he knew who he’d dreamed about. 

There was the uncomfortable prickling in the back of his neck that suggested that maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been a dream. Because he had felt very awake during it. 

But no, when he’d dreamed he hadn’t been in this bed. 

And besides. Blaine wouldn’t break his promise like that. 

At least, he hoped that he wouldn’t. 

***

Kurt whisked eggs together, adding a splash of cream before pouring it into a pan and waiting. He crumbled smoked salmon into the egg and little dabs of cream cheese, letting it cook on low while he caramelized onions and mushrooms, sliding them in as well. Folding the omelet up together, he flipped it twice on higher heat before sliding it onto a plate with mango salsa. He grabbed a glass of green apple juice and went out to the balcony to watch the sunrise. 

It had oddly become one of his favorite morning activities--which was good because he didn’t sleep much. 

Then again, it wasn’t that out-there, considering he’d always been the morning person while Blaine--

He sighed, leaning against the balcony rails while he cut into his omelet and enjoyed his Upper East Side view. 

It had been a simple deal. Blaine had told him that if he moved in with Rachel and Jesse, he wouldn’t contact Kurt again. Kurt had all-too-eagerly accepted, blatantly ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that told him that Blaine clearly cared because why else would he want Kurt to stay with Rachel and Jesse if not to make sure that he was okay?

Things had been...well, they’d been. It’d been a little over three months since Venice. Kurt spent most of his days trying to forget and being unable to. The most he could accomplish was an odd disassociation with it, like it’d been some crazy fever dream. 

But it hadn’t been. Because Blaine had left his plague mask behind. 

So Kurt dealt. Rachel and Jesse had been surprisingly good about the whole thing. Neither asked questions, but they both seemed to just know that something really bad had happened. Maybe Blaine had called ahead. There were times when Rachel looked like she really wanted to ask him a question, but she’d force it back and walk away. 

Kurt remembered the first time he’d come to this apartment--when he’d been convinced that Rachel was slaughtering her female cast members, and then he’d come to the conclusion that Blaine was. 

He’d been so convinced, because all Blaine ever did was lie. And he always lied to Kurt. 

He should’ve learned from history. 

The sun came up bright yet it was unable to cast away Kurt’s shadows. 

***

Jesse was up by the time Kurt was rinsing his plate, and from the sounds of the elliptical machine in the next room, Rachel was up as well. 

“How are you feeling?” Jesse asked as he went to the expensive espresso maker on the counter and started fiddling with it. It was a question he’d taken to asking quite a bit, recently. Everyday, he’d always ask Kurt how he was feeling. 

There was something routine about it that Kurt unexpectedly appreciated. 

“Clearheaded,” Kurt replied evenly, setting his plate on the counter next to the sink. “Very, very clearheaded.” 

“That’s good,” Jesse said earnestly, nodding with a small smile. “That’s good then.”

Kurt nodded back at him and returned to his room to figure out something to do for the day.

***

_“Violetta!”_

_Violetta snapped out of her daydreaming and looked over at her twin sister who was glaring at her from across the table. Amazing how a face identical to hers could look so utterly different._

_Liliana lifted her own needle, thread, and lace up for emphasis. “We still need to finish this before noon.”_

_Violetta sighed and looked down at the floral design she was supposed to be copying for the lace pattern and set back to work, though her mind kept straying to green witches and ruby slippers and technicolor._

_She’d only been able to see The Wizard of Oz once because the closest cinema was on the mainland and besides, it’d cost her allowance to go. Aching to go back, she tried to focus on her work, but her mind kept drifting back to the film._

_After another hour, Liliana sighed. “Go, have lunch. And try to be less useless when you get back.”_

_Violetta repressed a smile as she set her work down and picked up her covered bowl of the fish-vegetable-rice dish that her sister was so fond of making, heading down to the water._

_It was a clear day and the lagoon sparkled turquoise in the light, flashes of silver sun reflections blinding her briefly. She sat on a large warm gray rock and looked out over the water to where Venice barely was seen against the horizon. Sighing, she pushed her thick curly hair behind his shoulder and started eating._

_“Excuse me?”_

_Violetta turned, blinking in surprise to suddenly see a young man standing next to her rock, gangly and tall with obviously tailored clothing._

_He smoothed back the side of his head, where some of his hair was trying to escape from the pomade that held it back. “Could I maybe ask you a question? I’m new here.”_

_Violetta’s eyes widened, and she tried to ignore the way her ears turned red. “My name’s Violetta.”_

_He smiled, and it managed to blind her worse than the sun flashes off the lagoon, his clear blue eyes twinkling. “I’m Theodore. Theodore Anderson.”_

***

Riding the subways was oddly cathartic. Something about going at such a fast speed that his mind could finally just slow down and try to process. 

But every time it would go to examine the details, it was like there was just this block on everything and he’d focus on the tunnel lights streaming by instead. 

Or occasionally, his eyes would drift down to his wrist. 

He’d started wearing the green-brown glass acorn that Blaine gave him as a bracelet. There’d been a point when he’d almost thrown it away, but he physically couldn’t. 

But it felt like a betrayal resting under his shirt against his heart, so he wore it in another fashion. 

He just felt generally...numb about the whole thing. And angry, of course, but mainly confused. Because he had no idea why Blaine had done what he’d done. 

Well, a vague idea about protecting Kurt from him or whatever Edward Cullen bullshit he’d come up with. 

But Kurt didn’t understand why Blaine hadn’t just talked to him about it. Or even lied and told him that he simply wasn’t happy with Kurt anymore and broken the engagement that way. 

Why did he have to create such a large elaborate ruse _just_ to prove to Kurt how much they shouldn’t get married? Especially when he used marriage as part of the ruse.

Speaking of marriage...

Kurt’s second engagement ring hung on the cord around his wrist, next to the acorn. 

He vastly preferred it as a belly button ring.

Sighing, he leaned his head back against the window as they hurtled along. 

An odd prickling feeling triggered the hairs on the back of his neck and he sat up straighter, eyes doing a quick casual-looking glance around the car. 

Someone at the far end was staring at him.

Kurt breathed out, heart pumping as he looked forward, willing himself not to look back and draw suspicion. Okay, he had a tail. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The train screeched to a stop and he stood, fighting against the incoming crowd to get off as he walked across the platform and slid onto the stalled train heading back uptown. 

A minute later, the train pulled out from the station and Kurt breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled out. He hung onto the cool metal railing as he looked out the side window at the connecting car in front of his. 

The man was in there, staring at him. 

Kurt looked away, breath coming out quicker as he formulated a plan. 

Three stops later, Kurt lurched off his car and into the crowd before turning left and running up the stairs. They were in the Time Square station, where four different colors of trains met up. He heard commotion behind him and kept running, skidding down the long hallway. He contemplated heading back to the apartment, but instead veered towards the red lines. 

Down another flight of stairs with footsteps not far behind, he jumped onto a 3 train just as the doors were closing. They started moving and the man came down onto the platform, looking murderous. Kurt shot him a cheeky grin before he was swallowed into the darkness of the tunnel. 

***

He got off a few stops later and ran up the escalator into the familiar Greenwich air. Twisting his way through the crooked streets, he eventually made his way to Blaine’s apartment, climbing up the fire escape and in through his window, which was always unlocked. He locked it this time and pulled down the shade, taking his key from under his pillow and attaching it to his keychain before heading over to the kitchen. 

It was his first time coming back since, well...since he’d sat on the floor of the kitchen and cried until his potstickers and hot chocolate grew cold. 

Sighing, he walked over to the couch and collapsed on it, eyes drifting over to the blank whiteboard when they’d tried to work out who the Tinman killer was, and planning on using the bits and pieces in the novel they’d come up with together, with no idea of what on earth was to come ahead... 

***

Alexander Bergamot was a queer fellow, to be sure. 

At the oddest moments, he’d pop up in Elliott’s townhouse, presence unannounced, as he’d ramble on and on about whatever killer was loose in the streets. 

Even queerer was that despite his initial protests, Elliott would give up and listen to Mr. Bergamot’s ramblings and indeed, even become caught up in them. 

Two young girls from some of the seedier areas of London had been killed. The two seemed unlinked, yet Alexander insisted that there was a connection between the two of them, and that he was going to discover it. 

He also insisted that Elliott call him “Alex”.

Elliott insisted on sticking to “Mr. Bergamot”. 

***

In the end, it was really Rachel who gave everything away.

Well, not everything, but she clued Kurt in that something was definitely off. 

Jesse not bringing up Italy, he could understand. Despite his bravado, Jesse did know when not to say anything and just let Kurt deal. Not to mention that he was probably feeling some guilt in light of his overall failure as a Kurt-babysitter. 

But it made absolutely no sense why Rachel wasn’t saying anything. 

He knew her. He knew how she operated. Yeah, the first few weeks weren’t that odd because despite what Blaine (okay and Jesse that one time they got him drunk) said, she did actually have a modicum of tact. 

But he’s heard nothing from her since he got back. She hasn’t asked him about what happened once. 

Nothing from her end at all. 

His first thought was that Blaine told them. Jesse seemed to know something bad had happened, and it wouldn’t be a stretch for Blaine to reach out to them to look after Kurt, even if Kurt really didn’t want to think about that.

Though if that were the case, Rachel would still offer to talk about it at least, or try to make it about her in some misguided yet endearing way. 

Radio silence. Blackout. Dead zone.

Plus she’d been oddly nice to him which just weirded him out on some deep level. Even at their best, they stills squabbled whenever they were thrown together in any sort of situation. 

There was definitely something up, that much he could surmise. 

And he hated a small part of himself when he realized it.

Because there was nothing he wanted more than for Blaine to be there to help him figure it out. 

***

_Violetta toed her way across the flat dock railing, arms held out as she balanced and walked, the dock three feet down on her left, and the water to her right, four feet down. She was softly singing nonsense words to the tune that Dorothy sang at the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, ignorant to the actual lyrics as they were in English._

_(Though she’d added several phrases from the movie to her admittedly small collection of English sayings that she planned on using if she ever went to an English speaking country.)_

**_“There’s no place like home,”_ ** _she recited, tongue fumbling slightly over the foreign words._ **_“There’s no place like home. There’s no place--”_ **

**_“Wizard of Oz, right?”_ **

_Violetta stumbled, feet jumping as she tipped off the railing to her left, dock-side, and landed in a pair of arms._

_She was met with a dazzling smile and a single raised eyebrow._

_Theodore righted her on her feet before going on a long ramble, entirely in English._

_Violetta just stared at him, slightly bemused and slightly dazed. How come she hadn’t noticed before that his eyes matched the lagoon?_

_Theodore stopped suddenly, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he said, switching back to Venetian and moving a hand back to press against his hair. It must be a nervous tick. “You don’t actually speak English, do you?”_

_Violetta shook her head._

_“It’s just, my Venetian isn’t the best and I thought--”_

_“We could speak in Italian,” she offered, switching._

_He sagged in relief. “Thank you.”_

_“So...” Violetta leaned back against the dock railing. “What brings you to Burano?”_

_“Well,” Theodore leaned against the railing next to her. “I was told that the lace here is some of the best in the world.”_

_“You’re in the market for lace?” Violetta raised one eyebrow, trying to imitate the way he’d done it._

_“You could say that,” Theodore shrugged. “I was also told that the women here are some of the most beautiful in the world.”_

_Violetta felt her ears turned red, but she refused to look away. “So you’re in the market for women?”_

_Theodore’s smile broadened. “You could say that.”_

_Violetta leaned close to him, biting her lip softly. “Well then...you should go down the east canal at night. You’ll find plenty women willing to accommodate your ‘market’.”_

_And with that she pushed off of the rail and walked off of the dock, not looking back once and a smile teasing her lips._

***

Kurt started listening at doors. It wasn’t the most glamorous spying method, but it at least got the job done. 

(He learned not to do it when they thought he was out of the house though, because Mimi/Roger musical roleplaying sex was something that he honestly did not want to ever hear sung in like...ever.)

Fortune struck one night when he feigned going to sleep early and snuck back out, pressing his ear against their door and hearing Rachel and Jesse speaking in hushed tones.

“I just don’t like it,” Rachel said softly. “I think we should tell him.”

“And I think that’s a terrible idea,” Jesse argued. “You know the repercussions if this goes south.”

“But I hate lying to him! And he’s going to find out anyways, especially if Carl keeps calling here trying to reach him.”

“We can block his number, but Kurt’s wellbeing is our prior concern.”

“I know, it’s just...” she sighed.

Kurt had heard enough.

***

He called Carl the next morning, from a pay phone down in Grammercy. 

_“Kurt, where the hell have you been?”_

“Laying low for a bit,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyebrows before he remembered that it was a tick that Blaine had. “Italy was...a lot’s happened. I’ve been in New York. What’s up?”

_“Kurt...while you’ve been gone...a lot’s happened here too.”_

Kurt blinked. “What? What’s happened?”

_“Well first, there’s the toxicology report from Shelby’s death--”_ he cut off abruptly. 

“Hello?”

_“But we can go over that later. What happened in Italy? I mean, I’ve only heard rumors but...they’re worrying rumors, Kurt.”_

Kurt’s shoulders sagged. “You mean like me killing Blaine?”

_“Well--”_

“Oh come on, Carl, you can’t actually think that I’d kill Blaine,” Kurt said exasperatedly. “I didn’t flip out and go crazy, don’t worry. Blaine’s...he’s still in Italy. If you can get ahold of him to corroborate the story, more power to you.”

_“What the hell happened?”_

“I went to prison for a few weeks because everyone thought I’d killed Blaine, then I went to Venice and...” he trailed off as a thought occurred to him. “Hey, how many international contacts do you have?”

_“A few? Why?”_

“Any in England?”

_“Sure? I mean, I know a few. Kurt--”_

“Look, there was an agent on Shelby’s case in Paris and he followed me to Venice and...he got caught in the crossfire. Agent Adam Crawford from the British Secret Services. He’d been reporting about everything that happened and...” The heavy guilt that commonly came whenever Kurt thought about Adam settled on his chest again and he gulped. “So if you want to inform them that he, uh...that he’s gone, you know, that’d be nice.” 

There was a long silence. 

_“Kurt, I think you should come home.”_

“Can I even get into an airport?” Kurt frowned. “I mean, unless I’m no longer a wanted man...”

_“Just take Jesse’s plane then, to be safe.”_

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

_“We’ll need to get your statement in person and also we can fill you in on what we have on our end.”_

“Okay,” Kurt said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

_“Hurry over.”_

***

To add to the long list of peculiarities of Alexander Bergamot, there was the odd way in which he drank tea. 

It was a commonality that he’d show up in Elliott’s salon at the most random of times and demand a pot of jasmine or orange spice or lavender tea--always something exotic and whatever would come to mind. He claimed that he was looking for the perfect tea that he could settle with forevermore and not have to worry about hopping from one to the other, dissatisfied. 

But as for the manner of drinking, he always refused Elliott’s own china in favor of an odd little chipped teacup of his own. It was made of a very fine porcelain with little mock orange blossoms painted onto the side of the cup and the curve of the saucer. Alexander would always fill it two thirds of the way full and decline Elliott’s offer of his preferred lemon slice in favor of honey and the occasional spot of cream. 

Upon drinking, he would bring the cup up to his mouth, the chipped corner first up to his lips, where they would linger in an almost caress as his eyes would slide shut and his mouth would move along the rim approximately ninety degrees around the circumference of the cup and he’d take a deep sip. After he was done drinking for a time, his tongue would dart back to the chip, laving at it briefly in precaution for any drops. 

Elliott found the entire process fascinating for some inexplicable reason and he’d quite often lose focus from Alexander’s ramblings because he’d be too distracted watching him drink. 

For some odd reason, it never occurred to him that he should maybe correct Alexander on his improprieties. The very notion in fact seemed a blasphemy. 

Probably because they’d grown to be such close acquaintances. 

On the eve of the thirtieth of October, Alexander was sitting in his customary chair, soaked utterly to the bone, and looking stricken. He was shaking. 

Elliott stepped in front of him, concerned. “Alexander? My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?”

Alexander refused to look at Elliott. Instead, he wordlessly handed him his cup and saucer with a shaky hand. “Chamomile with honey. And a splash of brandy, to calm the nerves.”

Shocked that he was offered such a treasure, Elliott took it without question. He prepared the drink as asked and set it down on the small table next to the armchair that he was quickly starting to refer to as Alexander’s. 

Elliot sat down in his customary chair across from Alexander and folded his hands, waiting. 

After several sips of his alcoholic tea, Alexander looked decidedly calmer, and the shakes in his hands had gone down. “There was a third killing,” he said measuredly. “I--” his voice cracked slightly as he took another shaky sip. “I knew the victim. She was an old friend, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” Elliott said sincerely. “Honestly, I cannot fathom what you must be going through right now.”

Alexander downed the rest of his tea easily, looking darkling at the fireplace, his hands starting to shake again. 

Elliot sighed and picked up the bottle of brandy off of the mantlepiece, filling his cup. “To help with the nerves.”

Alexander nodded, taking a sip while Elliot partially filled his own tumbler. 

“I feel stricken, certainly,” Alexander offered after another long silence. “But mostly I feel very clear-headed. I know where to go with this.”

“And where’s that?” Elliott asked. 

Alexander finally looked up at him. “I’m going to find this murderer. And then I’m going to kill him.” 

There was a heavy pause that settled in between the two of them as the weight of Alexander’s words sunk in. Finally, Elliott spoke. 

“I’m going to help you.”

***

Kurt stared out the window as a good chunk of the country passed by. It’d taken a large argument to get Jesse to loan him the plane, but he’d relented after a while. 

But there was still something tickling the back of Kurt’s brain about all this, and what role he played. Because there were still so many pieces of the puzzle missing. 

And so he sat, and watched, and waited, until the plane settled down at Sea-Tac Airport. 

***

_“Are we ever going to talk about your suitor?”_

_Violetta nearly jabbed herself with a needle as she looked up at her sister vehemently. “He is_ **_not_ ** _my suitor.”_

_“Of course he’s not,” Liliana rolled her eyes. “It’s not like he’s been loitering outside of our shop for the past two weeks with a new bouquet of flowers every day.”_

_“I just don’t know how to avoid him,” Violetta groaned, focusing back on her pattern._

_Liliana sent her an incredulous look. “Are you serious? If this is you trying to avoid him then I’d hate to see what you actively encouraging his affections looks like.”_

_“Well what do you suggest I do?” Violetta said desperately._

_“Glare at him when you leave,” Liliana shrugged. “That’s the only way he tells us apart. I either glare or stare at him disparagingly. You either won’t meet his eyes or give him the most ludicrous puppy dog expression.”_

_Violetta sighed._

_“Also, if you run into him at the market, decline his offer to walk you home. And stop accepting those cakes he gives you. And don’t show him that shortcut across the canal that you did last week. And don’t show him that magenta house over east that you want to live in. And definitely don’t tell him that it’s your dream to marry someone and raise kids in that house.”_

_“I was just being friendly!” Violetta protested._

_Liliana sent her a look. “He bought the house the next day.”_

_“Clearly to tease me.”_

_“And why would he do that?”_

_“Rich traveling Englishmen don’t stay in places for long,” Violetta said defensively. “They look for an exotic distraction while they travel and then they return home to their wives. There’s no way he isn’t married or at least engaged.”_

_“Well why don’t you actually ask him before jumping to conclusions?” Liliana stood, taking off her apron. “I’m going to lunch. Watch the shop.”_

_“What?” Violetta said. “No--”_

_Too late, she left._

_Violetta kept her head down and worked astutely, tensing slightly as she heard the bell ring as the door opened._

_“Good afternoon.”_

_She looked up from her work to see Theodore in the doorway, looking handsome as ever, with a bouquet of poppies._

_Where did he even get those?_

_He placed them in front of her, looking so naively hopeful that she caved and accepted them. Honestly, they were quite pretty._

_“I was wondering...” he went on. “If you’d like to go on a vaporetti ride with me--”_

_Violetta rolled her eyes. “A romantic ride across the lagoon? Really? Hoping for a happy ending in the boat because if you think--”_

_“Actually,” Theodore cut across her, holding up two tickets. “I got tickets to the cinema on the mainland and I was wondering if you’d accompany me.”_

_Violetta blinked, looking at the tickets and the familiar title proclaiming which film they’d be seeing. Her eyes widened. “Really?”_

_“Well, I remember you saying how much you liked it, and if you needed a translator while we watched...” he trailed off with a shrug._

_Violetta leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “I’d love to go.”_

_Theodore looked surprised before a goofy grin lit up his face._

***

Kurt took the lightrail from the airport into the city, the uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck that always alerted him whenever something wasn’t quite right refusing to go away. So he let his eyes slide shut and let the comfortable lull of the train soothe him into complacency. 

He sighed as they pulled into the bus tunnel and he prepared to get off at his stop, grabbing his overnight pack. 

Looking up out of the train windows, he saw someone across the platform staring at him. 

Kurt froze, keeping eye contact with the man, but not daring to get off. 

The man started forward, but the doors slid shut and the train went on through the tunnel. 

Kurt breathed out a sigh and gripped his bag tightly, intent on getting off at the next station. 

***

Weaving through pedestrians, he was able to make it to Carl and Emma’s apartment relatively unscathed, though he kept glancing behind him every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

He knocked on the door to the apartment and smiled in relief when he saw Carl, throwing his arms around him. 

“It’s so good to see you!” he grinned, squeezing tight. It was true. It’d felt like a lifetime ago when they’d all been in Paris, carefree. 

(Well, okay, they were being stalked by a murderer and half of them were tied up in the string of crimes and they were constantly watching each other’s backs, but yeah, it was pretty carefree for them.)

Carl let him into the apartment, where he exchanged hugs with Emma and saw a surprising sight over her shoulder. 

“Finn?” Kurt said incredulously with half a laugh as he started towards his stepbrother. “What are you doing here?”

“Have a seat, Kurt,” Finn said in a measured tone, gesturing to the chair in the room. 

Kurt looked behind him at Carl and Emma, who looked oddly somber. 

Warily, he sat down, folding his hands neatly. 

Finn stared at him intently to an almost unnerving degree. Carl moved to stand by the window, folding his arms. Emma was looking on, worried, at the door. 

Kurt blinked. “What’s going on?”

Finn took a deep breath. “When were you going to tell us about what really happened in Italy?”

Kurt felt his chest immediately clench up and his fingers flexed. He proceeded with caution. “What do you mean?”

Finn continued to stare at him. “Kurt...the last that anyone heard from you until yesterday, you and Blaine went off together for a week in Northern Italy. Then nearly two months later you show up in New York and no one knows where Blaine is and last week I got a bill from some mental hospital in Italy for your time there--”

“Wait, what?” Kurt interrupted, holding up his hand. “What are you talking about?”

Finn sighed. “We know about the hospital, Kurt.”

“Well I don’t,” Kurt said, crossing his arms. “What hospital? I never went to a hospital.” 

“Don’t lie to us, Kurt,” Finn said, voice raising. “This is serious! Not to mention that you escaped in under three weeks. Vespaciano has policies against that--”

“Vespaciano?” Kurt said sharply. “The prison? I mean yeah, I escaped, but I was innocent! Blaine isn’t even dead so I shouldn’t have been convicted, you know that!” 

The silence in the room was palpable. 

“Finn, he doesn’t know,” Carl said gently. “I told you that it might end up like this.”

“Don’t know what?” Kurt demanded. “What’s going on?”

Carl looked over at him before letting out a weary sigh. “Kurt, do you remember Shelby Corcoran’s death?”

“Of course I do,” Kurt frowned.

“And how oddly she reacted to you stabbing her with a needle?” Carl pressed.

“Yes,” Kurt said exasperatedly. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“We found...something in her bloodstream,” Carl said slowly. “Something that entered her body with the needle. And she had an allergic reaction to one of the main components.”

Kurt blinked. “And...?”

Carl shifted off the wall, unfolding his arms to put his hands in his pockets. “Shelby Corcoran was deathly allergic to poppies.”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Kurt’s neck, but he ignored it. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that a strain of the same drug that was used to...subdue you years ago was found on your needles. And several of your other belongings.”

Kurt felt his hands start to shake and he gripped the material of his pants in an attempt to stop them. “How did it get get on my belongings?”

“We don’t know,” Carl said quickly. “And we aren’t blaming you because you’re clearly the one who’s suffered from it.”

“Suffered from it?” Kurt asked, bewildered. “How have I suffered from it?”

Carl licked his lips nervously. “Well, we’re still doing research, but we think that it may have been taken in through your skin and your body started reacting to it, which brought up another crop of hallucinations.”

“But I haven’t been hallucinating,” Kurt protested, standing. 

“Yes, you have Kurt,” Finn cut in.

“Finn, I thought we were going to take a different approach,” Emma said gently.

“There’s no way to sugarcoat this!” Finn snapped before turning back to Kurt. “Kurt look, you started hallucinating during the trip, which is why Blaine checked you into the hospital--”

“What?” Kurt squawked, before a rush of anger came over him. “Did Blaine tell you that?” 

“No, we haven’t been able to get a hold of Blaine,” Emma said.

“Well isn’t that convenient!” Kurt laughed. “So you’re going off hearsay that I’m a crazy loon that had to be locked up?”

“No, we’re going off of the statement that the hospital sent us,” Finn said coldly, handing Kurt a paper. “That you escaped in the middle of treatment and they’re requesting that you return to complete your stay.”

Kurt stared at the paper with technical terms that flew right over his head. “It’s not a hospital,” he murmured, turning away from the paper in disbelief. “It’s a prison. I was there for murder. I got out through the basement and went to Venice...”

“Can you even hear yourself right now?” Finn said earnestly. “Do you have any idea how crazy you sound? You went to a prison and somehow managed to escape in less than three weeks?”

“Of course it sounds crazy, but doesn’t everything in my life?” Kurt snapped back before rounding on Carl. “And did you even try to contact the British Secret Services?”

“I did,” Carl nodded.

Kurt gestured wildly. “And?”

“And there’s no record of anyone named Adam Crawford who’s worked for the British Secret Services in the past fifty years.”

Kurt stared at him. “Well, he was probably using that name as an alias--”

“That’s what I thought,” Carl nodded. “So I asked about your case specifically. You aren’t even on their radar. Which means that there’s no way you went to prison because if you did then INTERPOL would’ve tripped.” He gave Kurt a long look. “I also did a search throughout England for Adam Crawford, just to be sure. There were six. Three were above the age of fifty, one sixteen year old, and two under ten.”

Kurt clenched his hands tightly. “So maybe he had a different nationality or--”

“Kurt,” Carl interrupted. “Did...did anyone other than you ever see Adam?”

“I--” Kurt broke off, thinking back. “Well, I’m sure someone did--”

“No one did,” Finn said. “None of us saw him.” 

“He was at the ball!” Kurt protested. “He dressed as Prince Charming!”

“Along with half of the other guys there?” Finn shot back. “Kurt, you made him up. He doesn’t exist!”

“Yes he does!” Kurt yelled, hands shaking badly. “I know he does!”

“You don’t know, because you were at a mental hospital for weeks!”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were! Blaine even checked you in!”

The silence was deafening. 

“What?” Kurt whispered.

“He was the one to check you in,” Finn said.

Kurt breathed in heavily as things started to fall into place. 

Blaine.

This was all Blaine.

Apparently he hadn’t been satisfied with playing with his mind for nearly a month, so he decided to toy with it some more. 

Kurt’s jaw clenched and then released slowly. “Well the next time you see Blaine, you can tell him to stuff it. But I’m out of here.” He turned to leave.

Finn grabbed at his arm. “Kurt, this is serious. Stop kidding around.”

“Oh, I know it’s serious!” Kurt snapped. “Which is why I’m going to fix this now!”

“Kurt--”

“Finn, get off!”

Kurt managed to wrench his arm back, his sleeve cuff tearing partially as he yanked it away, and his bracelet baubles falling through.

Carl’s hand replaced Finn’s suddenly, as he yanked Kurt’s arm up for his inspection. “Kurt,” he asked in an odd voice. “Where did you get this acorn?”

Kurt looked from the acorn back to Carl in confusion. “From Blaine. And if you guys would pull your heads out of your asses for five minutes, maybe you’d realize that he’s the person who should be locked up in a mental hospital.”

He pulled his arm from Carl’s and turned, Emma scattering to the side as he left, slamming the door behind him.

***

Being a member of high society, there were a great deal of noblemen and women that Elliott had to interact with on a daily basis. 

One such member was Lord Clive Huntington, one of the lords of Lancaster. His town apartment was two blocks due east of Elliott’s, and their social circles often coincided, so they saw each other semi-frequently. 

Elliott utterly loathed the man, but tolerated his company because of their shared acquaintances. 

On one particularly chilly November afternoon, Elliott hosted a garden party at one of the nearby arboretums that he was a patron of. The dually thick scents of gardenia and jasmine filled the air as the socialites sampled a lovely rose-lemon tea that Elliott had procured, delicate little French biscuits in varying pastel colors. 

The night before, he’d practically begged Alexander to make an appearance, just to stave off a modicum of the boredom he was anticipating. 

Alexander did not disappoint. 

He made conversation with just about everyone, lacing his own dialogue with heavy yet subtle double entendres that had Elliott taking several hasty sips of tea to hide the quirk of his lips. 

The two found themselves over by the table of appetizers--Alexander’s insistence because apparently he hadn’t had breakfast--with Alexander making intentionally ludicrous comments about the names of the colors of the various dresses and handkerchiefs, when Clive slid forward to join them.

Elliott immediately took a long drink to cease his laughter before straightening with his custom friendly smile. 

“Mr. Grey, I must say that this is an excellent party,” Clive said with stiff frivolity. 

Elliott schooled his face into superior gratitude as he studiously ignored the imitating face of Clive that Alexander was pulling behind his back. “Thank you, Mr. Huntington. It was not without the expense of great effort.”

Alexander rolled his eyes behind Clive, and Elliott knew he was scoffing at the word “effort” considering that Elliot had barely lifted a finger in the process of party-planning. 

“I do love the raspberry honey,” Alexander cut in, voice semi-haughty with just an edge of mocking. “I think it really set off the flavor of the rose and lemon. Excellent choice, old chap.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bergamot,” Elliott said, doing his best not to roll his eyes at the familiar ‘old chap’ jibe. Elliott was only fourteen years Alexander’s senior, and Alexander barely even looked his university age of nineteen. “Your input is always welcome and I hold it dearly to heart.”

He took the suppressed smile on Alexander’s end as a victory.

Clive turned to give Alexander a long appraising look. “Mr. Bergamot, is it? I must say, we’ve all been quite curious as to the manner of gentleman that Mr. Grey has been keeping such close company with over the past few weeks.” 

“Well, the manner is what I present,” Alexander said amiably, gesturing to himself. “Observe if you must.”

Clive smiled then. The thing about Clive Huntington was that he was not one for genuine smiles--they were often calculated and for a specific purpose. “Oh, I highly doubt that,” he crooned. “You certainly put on quite the show, Mr. Bergamot, but I can spot lower class when I see it.”

“Clive,” Elliott said sharply. “How dare you insinuate--”

“Oh, I insinuate nothing, Elliott,” Clive said easily before turning back to Alexander. “I met an acquaintance of yours nearly a fortnight back, Mr. Bergamot. A Miss Daisy Carlisle?”

Alexander froze suddenly, his hand going rigid against his peculiar teacup. 

Elliott flicked his eyes between the two, trying to read the situation and wondering why the name sounded so familiar...

“She was just recently murdered, was she not?” Clive carried on with little remorse. “Distasteful business, though not entirely uncommon in that area of town. She was the landlady of one of my former maids that I sadly had to let go of--got herself with child, you see. Couldn’t work anymore. I went to check-up on the girl and Miss Carlisle happened to mention in passing a certain young Mr. Bergamot who lived down the hall.” 

Clive tilted his head as he took another step towards Alexander. “I saw you come in the building and the name stuck with me all this time. And that building was seized in the wake of Miss Carlisle’s death, and all inhabitants had to find other residences. I did some inquiring of my own and found out that no one in the area had taken on a Mr. Bergamot.”

He turned to Elliott with relish. “So, dear Elliott, you’ve been hosting a homeless indigent for over a week. I just thought you’d find this information interesting.”

“I did find lodgings,” Alexander cut across before Elliott could respond, his eyes flashing. “But I opted to give it to a Miss Caroline Cartwright, whom I believe you know because she used to be your maid. The one you claimed “got herself with child”. Interestingly, she often told me stories of her employer who would come to her room late into the night.”

Clive grew a horrid shade of red. “Are you insinuating--”

“Oh, I insinuate nothing Mr. Huntington,” Alexander said without remorse. “What--you were rich enough to hold decadent dinners every fortnight but too cheap to put up the mother of your own child in proper lodgings?”

“How dare you--”

Elliott reached out and grabbed Clive’s wrist sharply as it moved to strike Alexander. There was a tense silence between the three of them before Elliott finally turned to Alexander. 

“Is it true?” he asked quietly. 

Alexander breathed out suddenly and gritted his teeth before nodding. 

Elliott raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s preposterous. You should have told me immediately.” 

Alexander’s jaw clenched as he looked to the side. “Well I was hoping that my class status wouldn’t matter.”

“Not your class status, you imbecile,” Elliott rolled his eyes. “The state of your lodgings. Had I known that you had none, I would have offered you a room. You know I have far too many already.”

Alexander blinked, looking back at him.

Clive sputtered. “Elliott, you cannot be serious--”

“Mr. Huntington,” Elliott said coldly, giving the wrist an extra squeeze. “I think you’d better remove yourself from the grounds. I’d hate to see Mrs. Huntington’s reaction if she ever found out about your dalliances with the maids.” 

The look that Clive then gave him would have been terrifying to any other men, but it just filled Elliott and Alexander with a great deal of self-satisfaction. With a huff, Clive stormed out.

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “We’re still informing Mrs. Huntington, correct?”

“Of course,” Elliott grinned. “It’s our civil duty.” He glanced over to see Alexander staring at him queerly. “What?”

“Just...” Alexander started before breaking off with an abrupt laugh and shaking his head. “Nothing, Mr. Grey. Nothing at all.” 

***

Kurt marched all the way down to Second and took a sharp left, on a warpath as he headed to Pioneer Square. 

Something was seriously wrong. He wanted to blame Blaine for most of it--the mental hospital seemed to scream Blaine--but for everything that Blaine had done, he’d never sent anyone to follow him or act like they wanted him dead. 

Which was the feeling he got from the two different men who’d followed him in train stations in two separate cities.

And one of those cities had been Seattle.

And if anyone knew about criminal activity in Seattle... 

Kurt jumped onto the dumpster and hooked his leg over the fire escape, climbing up to the third floor and smashing in the window with his foot. 

Dustin Goolsby looked up from where he was sitting at his dining room table in his boxers, eating scrambled eggs on toast. 

Kurt clambered through the window and grabbed one of the larger shards of glass, starting towards him. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” Goolsby protested, standing and holding his hands up, still clutching his piece of toast in one. “Jesus, Porcelain, give a guy some warning!”

“Who is it, Goolsby?” Kurt snarled, grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him back until he stumbled against the counter. 

“What, did you hit your head again, because someone sounding cuckoo--” he was cut off by Kurt  placing the tip of the shard in the hollow between his clavicles. “Easy!”

“Who is it, Goolsby?” Kurt repeated, pressing in slightly. “Who wants me dead?”

“Okay, okay!” Goolsby said hurriedly. “Jesus, you’d think you’d have some courtesy after what I’ve done for you.”

“You mean taking advantage of a sixteen year old boy who thought he was a girl and pimping him out?” Kurt shot back.

“You consented!”

“I was half-crazed out of my mind!” Kurt snapped, digging the shard into his chest until a drop of blood oozed out. “And enough of the antics, what do you know?”

Goolsby stared at him hard before sighing. “Alright, a hit has been place on you, but they don’t want you dead. They want you alive.”

Kurt glared into his eyes hard before deciding that Goolsby honestly had nothing to gain from lying to him in this situation. “Who?”

“Hell if I know. Someone seriously rolling though, because whoever he is, he’s hired some big guns to come after you.”

Kurt pressed forward. “You have to know at least something.”

Goolsby seemed to hold his breath before he let it out in a long exhale. “Just a word, okay? And I have no idea how it even relates--”

“What is it?”

Goolsby licked his lips. “Hook.”

Kurt blinked, loosening his grip and taking a step back, his mind reeling. 

“Look, that’s all I know,” Goolsby sighed. “There’s a hit on you but whoever this guy is, he wants you brought in, because I guarantee, if he wanted you dead, you would be.”

A red dot appeared on Goolsby’s forehead. 

Kurt barely opened his mouth before the second window in the apartment smashed and there was the briefest sound of whizzing before Goolsby lurched back and crumpled to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. 

Kurt jumped back, dropping the shard as he secluded himself in Goolsby’s kitchen, grabbing a knife out of the chopping block and holding it close, eyes locking with the second window, where the shot had come from. 

But after staying put for half an hour, there were no other shots and no movement towards the apartment. So Kurt called 911 and left, a plan already formulating. 

***

_“But maybe he just sees me as a friend.”_

_Liliana looked over at Violetta like she was an imbecile. “He’s been here for four months. I’m pretty sure it’s not for our dazzling winters either.”_

_Violetta fiddled with her needle. “He’s never even tried to kiss me.”_

_“Maybe because you made it clear that you don’t want to be a side dish and you want to be courted and he’s respecting that,” Liliana said flatly. “I honestly don’t understand why you’re upset about it.”_

_“Because it’s so boring,” Violetta sighed, pillowing her arms under her head on her work desk. “I thought he’d whisk me away by now.”_

_“Where, to England?” Liliana snorted. “You do realize that this would literally be the reverse Wizard of Oz, right? You’d leave the rainbow houses and turquoise waters of Burano and head over to England. Where it rains. Apparently daily. And everything is gray.”_

_“But it’d have Theodore,” Violetta sighed, and Liliana grumbled to herself, something about hopeless cases._

_The bell tinkled and Violetta straightened up, grinning instantly when she caught sight of Theodore._

_The juxtaposition of her sister’s identical face looking moody was an unsettling one._

_“I’m just going to go in the back and...get something,” Liliana sighed, standing and walking out._

_Violetta moved forward eagerly, stopping just short of Theodore._

_Theodore smiled, shifting the parcel under his arm. “It’s carnival this week.”_

_Violetta nodded._

_“I was wondering if you’d like to go to the ball with me this Friday?” he hedged carefully._

_Violetta smiled broadly. “I’d be honored.”_

_“Well, I was wondering if maybe you’d wear these to the ball.” Theodore handed her the parcel._

_She pulled at the twine strings and unfolded the parchment paper to find a pair of ruby red slippers, perfect for dancing. She looked back up at Theodore, lost for words, when she saw that he wouldn’t meet her eye._

_He was staring down at his hand, which was holding up a ring._

_“I was also wondering if you’d maybe wear this,” he said, finally looking back up at her. “It was one of my mother’s and...”_

_It was a gold ring with dozens of small emeralds encrusted around the band._

_“It reminded me of your eyes,” he plowed on, rambling slightly. “But if you don’t like it, then I can ask for a different one, I mean she has a lot--”_

_“Theodore,” Violetta interrupted, placing a hand over his. “You’re asking...?”_

_Theodore blinked. “Right, I--will you, I mean, unless this is too fast? I could try with more wooing or--”_

_Violetta leaned forward and kissed yeses into his lips._

***

He dropped by a drugstore first and grabbed two different hair products and a cheap makeup kit. On a whim, he also snagged a pair of shiny Aviator sunglasses. From there he headed to one of the main department stores downtown, grabbing a gratuitously padded gel bra, some ambiguously lumpy sweater dress, and a beanie. His last stop was at the grocery store where he bought several pieces of fruit and a dispenser of saran wrap. 

The first step was his hair, so he used the first tube of hair products, combing liberal amounts of it into his hair and tying it back while he did the rest of his shopping. After two hours, he washed it out, giving a resigned smile to his locks which were now leeched of color entirely, leaving it ashy blonde.

He prepared during the taxi ride back to the airport--thanking god that he still had one of the three fake IDs on him that Puck had bequeathed him when he was nineteen--dressing in the sweater dress and adjusting his makeup with practiced ease. He’d neglected cutting his hair for months, which was now helping him as he fluffed it around his head and placed the beanie cap over it. 

Carefully, he gave each piece of fruit multiple layers of plastic wrap before sticking them in his bag, along with his last tube of hair product, makeup kit, and his change of clothes that he’d packed.

Carl was fast and he’d no doubt stick the police on him. 

Sometimes it was convenient to switch genders.

***

“Blair Andrews,” the security check guard read aloud on Kurt’s false ID as he passed the black light over it. Kurt had a lie on his tongue ready about dying his hair from brunette to blonde, but it wasn’t needed. “Have a nice flight Miss Andrews.” 

“Thank you,” Kurt purred as he headed his way through security. 

Once through, he headed to his gate. It was relatively empty--thanks to the nature of red-eyes--and he set his bags down before heading to the bathroom. 

Once in, he got to work, taking his first tube of hair product and carefully combing small amounts of it into his pale hair. He diligently unwrapped his fruit from their plastic wrap and wrapped up his hair instead, covering it with his beanie so it couldn’t be seen. Satisfied, he threw the miscellaneous items away and went out to catch his flight. 

***

It was a long flight, but he stayed awake most of the time, quietly plotting out his course of action.

He felt...normal, as odd as that sounded. But he was getting back to his roots, so to speak--when he’d snapped out of his daze of being Dorothy and had clicked into Kurt. He’d gone off on his own a lot and only really relied on himself. 

He’d been relying on Blaine for the past few years, he’d almost forgotten how to just rely on himself. 

Plus it was better this way. There was only one person he could be disappointed with.

***

He fell asleep briefly. And he had a nightmare. 

In the dream, he was tucked up in bed, comfortable, mellow, and then something entered the room. Something creeped up over him and watched him.

A monster. It was a monster.

He yelled out for help, yelled out for Blaine, but the monster grabbed him and he felt blood everywhere and he pitched off the bed, scrambling to escape--

And that was when he woke up, breathless and confused.

***

Landing at Newark, he was ready.

He got off the plane easily, but the voice over the intercom asked for Blair Andrews to come to the main terminal. 

They were fast.

But he was two steps ahead.

He went into the bathroom and tore off the beanie, throwing it in the trash, along with the sweater dress. He changed into the skinny jeans he’d packed and pulled his boots back on over them before tearing out the plastic wrap and leaning over the sink, thoroughly washing the dye out.

Looking up with a slight grin, his hair was now a pale blue.

He scrubbed his face clean of makeup and started over, applying a bunch of gray around his eyes to give him an exaggerated dark-circles look. After pulling on a black turtle neck, he then took out his little travel-sized sewing kit and stared disparagingly at the tiny scissors for a couple of seconds before putting them to his hair and hacking one lock at a time.

It was tedious, but worth it as clumps of light blue hair fell into the sink. He dried his head under the hand dryer before fluffing up his newly shorn hair and sliding on his sunglasses. What he didn’t need, he threw into the trash and he walked out of the bathroom a different man. 

***

Kurt half-expected the police to be waiting for him back at Rachel and Jesse’s, but it was only the couple that was there.

Though from the looks they gave him when he walked in, he almost wished that it was the police instead. 

“What the hell happened?” Jesse snapped, standing. “Seriously, nothing happens for months then the one time I let you out of my sight--”

“What the hell happened to your hair?” Rachel squawked.

“--and I don’t understand how I haven’t put a tracking device on you by now--”

“It looks like it was cut by a sloth.”

“--do you have any idea how worried we were when you didn’t come back on our plane--”

“And that color makes you look like you want to play Frenchie in an all-male production of Grease.”

“You guys!” Kurt yelled over their synchronized lectures and they quieted. He looked between the two of them. “Okay, will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Jesse and Rachel both looked at each other, but neither spoke.

“Really?” Kurt snapped with a slightly hysterical laugh. “Silence? That’s what you two are going with. The two people I know who hide from silence like it’s a plague and neither of you will give me a straight answer?”

Again, more silence.

Kurt felt his nose prickle as he turned to Jesse. “Jesse, really? After all we’ve been through?”

Jesse looked up at him like it physically pained him. “Kurt...”

“Please, Jesse,” Kurt begged. “It’s like nothing is making sense.”

That seemed to get through to him. “Look, all I know is that Blaine said--”

“Blaine?” Kurt said sharply, the word resonating through his chest like a plucked string. He took a step back. “Wait...you’re listening to _Blaine_?”

“Kurt, please,” Rachel pleaded. “He just wants to help--”

“Help,” Kurt said, disbelievingly. “ _Help_? Do you remember what he did to me?”

“Kurt, if you’d just listen--”

“No,” Kurt shook his head. “I don’t want to hear what Blaine has to say about me, because Blaine can honestly go fuck himself. And you two can as well, if you’re going to take up with him on the matter.”

He turned, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

Really, there was only one place he could go. Only one place that no one knew about except for him and Blaine. 

Well, and Sam, but he took care of that easily. 

**Black sheep. Tell Sam not to tell anyone. He’ll understand.**

He sent the text to Mercedes, knowing that she’d get the reference and would comply and that Sam wouldn’t want to go against her. 

He hated that it was his last resort, but honestly it was his best bet. 

So he headed down to Greenwich Village.

***

Upon entering the apartment, he knew that something wasn’t...quite right. Something was off. It wasn’t anything that jumped out at him. It was just a shift in the air that set Kurt’s teeth on edge. 

The apartment was dark and he locked the door securely behind him, walking forward cautiously. 

The change became glaringly obvious when he entered the living room and saw the giant rectangle that took up most of the space, nearly touching the ceiling. It was covered with some sort of heavy canvas cloth that draped around it. 

Apprehension tickling his spine, Kurt walked forward and turned on the lamp text to the couch, bathing the room in a soft glow as he slowly walked forward to the cloth. Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and yanked it down. 

His hand flew up to clap against his mouth as he took two staggering steps backwards.

It was a painting of him in a pretty blue frock, his eyes wide and terrified, arms strung up with gold thread like a marionette’s, and his mouth stitched completely shut with black thread. His arms and legs were covered in whip marks. His feet were nestled in a patch of forget-me-nots and blue-black poppies. On his head sat a gold crown. 

At the bottom of the painting, in fancy gold leaf, was the word _AVARICE_.

It took a good five minutes of Kurt staring at it in horror before he slowly took out his phone. He’d promised that he’d never call this number again, but these were pretty extenuating circumstances.

The other line picked up on the fourth ring.

“Kurt?”

Kurt blinked at the familiar voice, though it wasn’t the one he was aiming for. “Hermes?”

“Yes, I--what’s wrong?”

Kurt glanced back at the painting. “Look...if he thinks this is a joke or something, just tell him to cut it out because it’s really actually freaking me out, so surprise his plan worked--”

“Kurt, Kurt, stop. What are you talking about?”

“Look, just--just tell him that the painting was pushing it a bit too far, okay? I have to go.”

“Kurt, wait--”

He hung up, sitting down on the couch to stare at the painting, unnerved. He curled his legs up underneath himself as he wondered how the hell he was supposed to get it out of the apartment. 

He’d almost dozed off twice before he even noticed. There was a note attached to the side of the frame. He walked over and picked it up, hands shaking as he opened it and read.

_My sweet little Dorothy, I’ve found you at last_

_Did Blaine think he could just hide you from his past?_

_I’ll take that small needle and thread that you use_

_And show that your charmed little life’s just a ruse._

_To mar up that porcelain skin is a crime_

_But I’ll muddle through it to make you my mime._

_And with your sweet lips stitched up tight in a beam_

_I’ll take what I want while you try hard to scream_

_Don’t worry, we’ll put on a fun show for Blaine_

_As he’s forced to watch his dear lover in pain_

_So I’ll lock you up in my cage, little bird_

_For children are meant to be seen and not heard._

The note shook in Kurt’s hands as he turned it around and read the ten words that had been viciously written in splotchy ink across the back.

**_I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little dog too._ **

***

“You’ve seemed focused,” Elliott remarked in an attempt to make conversation with the recently silent Alexander. “Ever since the incident at the opium den.”

“And you’ve seemed distracted ever since the incident at the opium den,” Alexander shot back. “Would you care to elaborate on that matter?”

Elliott felt the tips of his ears grow red, because that matter was something he only ever admitted to himself late at night when his guard was down. 

Alexander sighed. “I’m sorry Elliott, it’s just...” he broke off, his jaw clenching. “It’s just that there’s something particularly despicable about a killer of women.”

Elliott frowned leaning back against his chair. “Because women are inherently already at a disadvantage?” 

“No,” Alexander shook his head. “I mean, yes, but not in the way you think. The women I grew up with...they’re strong. All the women I know are strong, just not in ways that men realize. Yet our society demands that women be these dainty little delicacies which is completely absurd considering this country is under the rule of one woman. But already, since birth, women are set back by this society that favors men, but they do reach forward and succeed, despite the extraneous circumstances that they have to overcome. 

“Then a man comes along and exploits their institutionalized weaknesses seemingly for his own perverted pleasure and starts killing them. He’s taken the lives of these four women and essentially spat in their faces. It’s disgusting and a mark of literally the worst type of person.”

***

A few days later found Kurt at the convenience store just around the corner from the apartment. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but there was only so much canned soup in the apartment. 

Plus getting away from the painting, even for a short while, was a blessed relief. 

He stuck to the basics--potstickers, nutella, and milk--and paid quickly before heading back. 

But he was only twenty feet from the store when the familiar prickling settled in on the back of his neck. 

Someone was following him.

Gripping his bags tightly, Kurt rushed down the street, refusing to look back as he closed in on his apartment building. Once inside, he raced up the stairs until he reached his door, unlocking it hurriedly and sliding in, slamming it firmly shut behind him and locking it. 

He breathed a sigh of relief, his forehead falling to the door in quiet thanks before he squared his shoulder and turned around to go put his groceries in the kitchen. 

There was someone standing in the living room.

Kurt dropped his groceries as his eyes darted around for possible weapons--the knife block was too far away, but keys always worked--and he was settling on just running back out when he realized who it was.

“Blaine.”

Blaine looked up from the note that had been attached to the painting, his scarred face grim. 

“Hello Kurt.”

There was a pause where they just looked at each other. And even though Kurt had rehearsed a thousand different versions of what he’d say to Blaine if this particular moment ever came, but now there was only silence.

Kurt was the one who broke it. “I know you didn’t send it. I realized after calling and talking to Hermes, I mean...I probably should’ve realized it beforehand. You wouldn’t have pushed that far.”

“You didn’t talk to Jeff, you talked to me,” Blaine said quietly.

Kurt stared. “What--”

“I...wasn’t sure why you were calling. So I used a quasi-middle man.” He looked back at the painting. “I wouldn’t have pushed at all. Well, unless I had to.”

A chill went down Kurt’s spine as he watched Blaine look at the painting. He was half in shadow, and the scars across his face stood out in stark contrast. His hair was similar to the last time he’d seen him--the top half wild and curly and the bottom half shaved around his flower tattoos. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea when Blaine had gotten that tattoo on the back of his head. It didn’t look new, which mean that he’d had it while they’d been together, but he’d never cut his hair short enough for Kurt to see it...

And the scars. Everything in Venice had happened in such a whirlwind that he never really took time to dwell on them, but he suddenly found himself curious as to how on earth he’d gotten them. 

And then Blaine’s words registered and he felt the familiar hot anger that’d been steeping for the past three months bubble up.

“You wouldn’t have pushed ‘unless you had to’? What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean, Blaine?” Kurt erupted, taking a step forward. “What, everything that happened between us in Italy was because you felt it was necessary to _push_ me? Pretending to be dead instead of just popping up and saying ‘Oh hey Kurt, I’m alive! Let’s not have you suffer through prison for weeks before barely escaping!’ You could have fixed everything if you’d just stepped up then, but instead you decided to pretend to be my prison guard, play some fucked up mind game where you killed some of the other inmates before leading me to freedom, but instead of revealing yourself then and there, I squander starving around Venice for over a week until I managed to find a job, all the while wondering what the fuck happened to you.

“And _then_ ,” Kurt laughed, throwing up his hands. _“_ When I start looking into the crop of killings and meet some psycho named Hades, I go along with his fucked up mind games, even promising to marry him, all for the sake of finding you and making sure that you’re safe because I _love_ you. Then when I do find you, you tell me to leave but I try to save you then you try to leave with me then you tell me to leave again then I go along with Hades and then after all that, _then_ you decide to reveal yourself.”

Kurt stared at Blaine in disbelief, breathing heavily. “I’m mean seriously Blaine, what the fuck?”

Blaine just stood there with the oddest expression on his face. He almost looked like he was going to cry.

“ _Well_?” Kurt yelled, the word echoing between them.

Blaine took a deep breath, the air seeming to rattle out of him as he swallowed. “Do you remember when we first went to the Alps?”

Kurt blinked because that was not the direction he thought Blaine would go in. “Yes, of course.”

_“Oh my god...” Kurt gaped, looking around. The sweet little cottage was nestled against a small crop of trees, a large meadow of wildflowers with connecting creeks and ponds spread out for acres, the whole valley surrounded by mountains._

_Kurt laughed, dropping his bags as he ran into the flowers. “This place is gorgeous, Blaine!”_

_Blaine grinned, running forward and tackling him into the flowers, the two of them rolling over and over. “Good cool-down after Paris?”_

_“Great cool-down after Paris,” Kurt agreed, kissing him. “How did you even find this place?”_

_“It was one of my uncle’s,” Blaine shrugged, rolling over to lie on his back and look up at the sky. “He left the family when I was young and gave up all his inheritances to his nephews and I got this one, as well as a couple of others further south. During summer break at college, I’d come here a lot.”_

_Kurt frowned, turning on his side to look at Blaine. “On your own?”_

_“Yeah...” Blaine said quietly before a smile brightened his face. “But not anymore.”_

“And...” Blaine went on. “You remember what happened there?”

“Well we got into a fight--”

“About what?”

Kurt stared. “About--why does that matter?”

“And how long did we fight again?” Blaine said softly. “Remind me.”

Kurt’s brows furrowed. “A day...no, more...I--what does this have to do with Venice?”

Blaine kept staring at him with that same borderline haunted look. “When we got to the cottage...the first morning, I received a note in the mail box. It told me that I could get rid of you on my own terms, or I could watch as someone else got rid of you for me. I received the same thing everyday and--”

“And you chose the former,” Kurt said quietly, glancing down. “I...a part of me considered it. That all of this was some big elaborate plot to strategically push me away and ensure that I’d stay away. That that would be your reasoning, and you’d say that I can’t argue because I did the exact same thing with Sebastian in New York--”

“No.”

Kurt looked up. “What?”

Blaine’s eyes were wide and full of dread. “That’s...that’s not what I did. I thought about it. I sincerely thought of hundreds of different ways to push you away, to make you hate me, anything to get you to safety. Because let’s face it--we’re each other’s weak spots. Threaten one of us, and the other will easily comply.”

“But...” Kurt pressed, feeling more and more confused by the second. 

“But...I remembered New York. I remembered you putting yourself on the line for me and I remember how well that turned out, which was not at all, because I just came running after you. We both come running after each other. Even when we really shouldn’t, or we should just call the police first, we always panic and drop everything and run...” he started rambling, his words growing faster and faster. “Which is stupid. We shouldn’t keep doing it and so I...I...” He looked back over at Kurt, his eyes terrified. “I called their bluff.”

Kurt stared. “You...”

“I didn’t comply,” Blaine swallowed, his throat bobbing slightly. “In fact, I wrote back a letter, challenging them to just come out face to face. We were going to meet at the west edge of the valley, over by the forest...” He sighed, rubbing his face. “I was so stupid. I thought that if I could just...find a way to leave you out of it then...” 

His hands dropped back to his side. “I was knocked out. Came too not much later and my face was screaming in pain and wet and I could feel the slash marks. There was a note for me on the ground. It said that I shouldn’t have left you alone. I ran back, half blind from blood and sweat and I got back to the cottage. You were still asleep in bed so I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn’t, so I started shaking you and you woke up and started screaming. Horrible, _horrible_ screaming and you looked so terrified and you kept calling for me but you kept backing away and it took me a while to realize that you didn’t even _recognize_ me.” 

_“Kurt!” Blaine finally yelled, standing across the room. “Kurt, it’s me!”_

_“Blaine!” Kurt screamed, sobbing hysterically. “Blaine, where are you?”_

_“Kurt!”_

_“Blaine!”_

_Blaine started forward and Kurt screamed some more, shakily standing to his feet and turning and running out the door. Blaine tripped over the overturned chair, ignoring Kurt’s phone that was lighting up with missed calls and took off after him, into the trees._

“I ran for hours, trying to find you,” Blaine said, sinking down against the back of the couch. “It was like when we first started living together in Seattle, the night Virginia died and I thought it was you so I drove all around the city looking for you. Except this time I knew for sure that you weren’t just upstairs sleeping.

“And I couldn’t find you. I searched everywhere but you’d vanished and I didn’t know what to do and...” Blaine broke off, looking down at his fingers.

Kurt’s heart pounded in his ears. “What...what are you talking about? I don’t remember--”

_He yelled out for help, yelled out for Blaine, but the monster grabbed him and he felt blood everywhere and he pitched off the bed, scrambling to escape--_

Kurt shook his head to block out the memory--no, dream. It was a dream. “That didn’t happen,” he insisted. “We got into a fight and then--”

“The fight that you can’t even remember?” Blaine guessed. 

“I do remember it!” Kurt snapped. “We fought because you were being standoffish and you wanted to call off the wedding!”

Blaine stared at him. “Kurt, you remember the beginning of that week. How on earth would I go from that to not wanting to marry you in six days?”

Kurt thought back, his mind racing. “Because of our age difference--”

“When has that ever bugged me in the past? Like seriously, it should’ve when we first met, but if it didn’t bother me then, it sure as hell doesn’t bother me now.”

Kurt’s breath started coming out heavy as he leaned one-handed against the wall. He reached up with his other hand and felt that his cheeks were wet. “Why am I crying?”

Blaine looked like he was close to.

Kurt clenched his hand against the wall. “Blaine?”

“I went to Venice,” Blaine said in a rush. “It was the closest place I had friends and everyone else had gone back stateside. I needed help to find you.” 

_Blaine stepped out of the gondola and up to the familiar M gates. Nick and Jeff had done it as a joke since both of their old Greek god nicknames started with the letter. He pushed them open and headed inside._

_He reached out and grabbed Flint’s arm sharply, twisting it around and yanking the knife from his hand. “Honestly, Flint? You do the same thing every time.”_

_Flint’s eyes widened as he took him in. “Blaine? Oh my god--wait, what happened to your face?”_

_“Long story,” Blaine sighed. “Nick and Jeff in? I could really use some help.”_

_“Blaine!” Jeff leaned over the top of the stair balcony, face melting from shock to delight. “Thank god. Did you come to help?” In the blink of an eye, he was sliding down the stair railing and hopping off the end. “Because things here have been insane.”_

_“What happened?” Blaine frowned._

_“We have no idea.” Nick came up from over by the side hall. “Everything’s been relatively quiet in the city for...well, for nearly two decades. There’ve been the typical skirmishes and trouble from the Casanova gang, but then about a month ago...bad things started happening. Nasty characters started cropping up all around the city. Aristocrats. They went after the homeless kids and their caretakers too. We lost Simon last week.”_

_“Simon?” Blaine stared. “Not...our Simon?”_

_Nick nodded._

_Blaine turned to Flint. “Flint, I’m so sorry--”_

_“It gets worse,” Flint said grimly. “Tonight, Marco died.”_

_“The orphanage head?” Blaine’s heart dropped. “But he was the main funder--”_

_“And all the kids were kicked out of the building. The city seized it,” Nick nodded. “We’ve been getting them all homes, but so many aren’t accounted for...”_

_Blaine sighed, his shoulder’s sinking under the weight of two disasters._

_“Why are you here, Blaine?” Jeff piped up suddenly._

_Blaine licked his lips. “My fiancee was kidnapped two days ago. I need to find out what happened to him and where he went.”_

_Nick nodded. “We’ll help.”_

Blaine reached up to scratch at the hair behind his ear. “We reached out through our networks and finally found you a few days later at Vespaciano Mental Hospital.”

“It’s a prison though,” Kurt said, his voice cracking. “Vespaciano is a prison.”

“It’s a mental hospital,” Blaine said, expression pained. “Kurt, I’m sorry, but it’s always been a mental hospital. It tends to cater more to the criminally insane, but it’s not a prison. You...you’d been...” He licked his lips, looking down at the floor. “Kurt, he gave you an overdose. It was the same opiate that the Karofsky’s gave you, but whoever administered it gave you way too much. It was made to look like an overdose. They got into the hospital records and locked you in confinement. You couldn’t have any visitors. I broke in one night to get you out, but...”

_Blaine ducked his head as he walked through the halls in his white lab coat, pushing into the side door at the end of the hall._

_Kurt was sitting alone at a desk surrounded by fabric, stitching little flowers._

_Blaine walked over to Kurt’s desk and pulled up a chair, sitting across from him. “Kurt?”_

_Kurt looked up at him, pupils dilated. He cocked his head to the side slightly._

_“Kurt, do you remember me?” Blaine said, leaning forward._

_“Dr. Ampelio,” Kurt frowned, staring at his needle before glancing up at Blaine. “Why don’t you call me Celeste?”_

_Blaine’s heart sank as he looked down._

_Kurt was still staring at him, but his fingers were working away at sewing, seemingly from memory._

“I got another note that night. It said that when people would loose their minds, they’d rely on basic point-memory, little bits of reference that they’d recognize. But something even as familiar as a father or brother or...fiancee could become unrecognizable if something about their appearance had changed drastically.” Blaine glanced up at Kurt. “Like, say...if they got their face carved up.”

Kurt didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

Blaine sighed. “I snuck in the hospital, sneaking in when I could, keeping an eye on you. I took you to the showers late at night, and even in the bright hallways, you’d always mutter about how dark it was...But I kept asking for bits of sewing as payment, because it was something that was you, something that you would always focus in on.

“But most of the time, it was like you didn’t even know where you were. You kept calling me Ampelio and yourself Celeste, or a few times you called me Eurydice and yourself Orpheus... It was like the way you associate everyone with characters, but cranked up to eleven, because you couldn’t seem to distinguish...”

_Kurt laughed, watching Blaine walking through the meadow with a flower crown in his hair, picking wildflowers. He was curled up in a chair, the window open so he could enjoy the breeze as he read the thick tome of Greek mythology that he’d found on Blaine’s bookshelf._

“It was clear that there was someone on the inside who kept drugging you up but we couldn’t figure out who. We were trying to figure out a way to smuggle you out, but then Renato, an old...well, enemy of mine recognized me and they questioned your roommate and then they went after you and...” 

“You killed them?” 

Blaine clenched his jaw. “They knocked you out in the shower and dragged you down into the old treatment room and started shooting you up with whatever they could find... Nick, Jeff, and Flint were with me then. We all wore masks and...yes. We killed them. And we broke out and had to escape on motorcycles.”

Blaine pushed off the back of the couch, taking a step towards Kurt. “Kurt, I’m...I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I took you to my aunt’s place and I called Jesse.” 

_“I think he has a fever,” Liliana muttered, dabbing at Kurt’s forehead gently. “If it breaks by the morning, he should be okay physically.”_

_“If?” Blaine asked desperately, dialing his phone. “God, Jesse, pick up!”_

_Thankfully the fever did break by morning, but Kurt was in a daze when he awoke._

**_“Seriously though, what the fuck happened? You guys just disappeared off the map--”_ **

_“Kurt was drugged and kidnapped. The same drug used from the Karofsky’s. It looks like he overdosed, then was administered it on a daily basis and we managed to get him out, but there were other drugs in his system, and he seems out of it. Like...really out of it. Out of it like I’ve only seen him when I found him at Dalton.”_

**_“...shit.”_ **

_“I mean, he doesn’t even recognize me. He didn’t at first last time, but he was able to in the end. But now he’s completely out of it and he doesn’t know anyone and--”_

**_“Blaine, listen to me, whatever you have to do, you need to snap him out of it. If it continues like this...”_ **

_“Continues like what?”_

**_“Look, the last time Kurt went through substantial drugging and then was cut off it abruptly and thrown into a new environment where he didn’t know anyone, he snapped. Lost his identity completely and ended up working in an alleyway in Seattle for months. And even after Emma found him, it was another few months until he finally came back to reality and remembered himself.”_ **

_“So you’re saying...”_

**_“He’s going to go under again. Can you get him back home?”_ **

_“Not legally if he’s not coherent. I’d need him to play along but I don’t think he’s in any state to, especially since he doesn’t even know how I am. Plus we’re being watched. Can’t we borrow your plane?”_

**_“Fuck. It went in for repairs as soon as we got back from France. It won’t be done until the end of June.”_ **

_“Does Kurt even have that long?”_

**_“There isn’t another choice unless you can think of a way to snap him out of it.”_ **

_“I’ll work on that. You work on getting the plane ready.”_

_“Blaine?”_

_Blaine turned to see Liliana by the door, a package in her hand._

_“This was left outside. It has your name on it.”_

_Frowning, Blaine took the package, stomach dropping when he recognized the handwriting on the top. Carefully, he unwrapped it. There was something swaddled in cloth and a note on top. Blaine read._

**_Don’t worry, Blainey. Freeing Kurt from his cage is simple. Because triggers are like marionettes--pull a string and the puppet will react accordingly._ **

**_If you pull this string, your Pinocchio will turn back into a real boy._ **

_Blaine picked up the cloth and unfolded it to peer at what had been sent._

_The cloth and whip fell from his hands as he took a staggering step back._

“I wouldn’t do it,” Blaine murmured. “I couldn’t do it. You once told me that it was your biggest fear...” 

Kurt remembered that well, somewhere in the time between Blaine coming back and their engagement. They’d been lying in bed together when Kurt had just started talking and then it had been like he couldn’t stop. 

_“The whipping was the worst,” Kurt whispered. “The drugs were terrible, but I could isolate that to a sick fascination of Paul’s. And everything that Dave did...It was Dave, and I can at least pretend to bury that with him. And Sebastian and the axe...that was Sebastian being psychotic. And all the other little things, I can categorize and compartmentalize, but the whipping...it was the worst because it was almost...commonplace. It was done to me under the claim that I’d done something wrong, and I got so used to thinking that...the other things, I could always step back and say that they were horrible things, and that they were done to me because of horrible people, but the whipping...that I could never differentiate entirely because I was so used to it being my fault, not theirs.”_

“Jesse found out and he told me to just do it because it would get you back and we needed to leave as soon as possible, but I just...I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I would never...”

Kurt’s breath started to get shallow as he stared at Blaine, who was little more than a dark smudge against the blackness of the apartment.

Blaine let out another long breath as he looked down. “Liliana took care of you while I tried to balance everything that was happening in the city as well. She asked me what you were doing when you seemed most...well, you. I told her it was when you sewed so she set you up at her lace shop. And you seemed to get better, at least a little at a time. You stopped calling yourself Celeste, but you wouldn’t really call yourself anything at all.

“And then you mentioned Marco’s murder to Liliana who mentioned it to me because you’d seemed lively and invested and interested and very rational and clear-headed... It was the first actual sign of progress...” Blaine started to trail off.

It clicked in Kurt’s mind. “That’s why the other murders started happening...wasn’t it?”

Blaine clenched his teeth. “Well...no. They would’ve happened anyways. Usually we go for imprisonment or managing to get people locked up in Vespaciano, but with the rate that people were starting to suffer, especially the children, not to mention that Flint was out for blood after Simon’s death...they would have happened even if neither of us were there. But after Marco’s death, there was a theme we could go with, especially since it fit our old aliases when we were teenagers, so we just slipped back into those and everyone played their parts.

“It was easy after that. You caught on our scent. We threw together the Narcissus Ball so that you could approach us and try to figure out the mystery.”

Kurt licked his lips. “But the wedding proposal--”

“Part of the time limit,” Blaine sighed. “Jesse said that he could get us out by the twenty-first at the earliest. And...whoever set this up...they said that if I pulled your trigger, you’d remember. And though I wouldn’t pull your biggest one...I did know that I would be willing to prod at a few of your smaller ones if it would bring you back. Marriage was one. Being told to lose who you were was another, which is why I kept reiterating it. 

“The jewelry just ended up fitting in unintentionally. Nick had found it amongst Renato’s belongings, all bent out of recognition and twisted beyond belief. So I put your ruby somewhere safe, I recast your rings into another one, and then I used the engagement ring as thread so that you could keep sewing since it was helping. 

“We thought it wouldn’t work at first, because you kept referring to yourself as Persephone, even when you thought others weren’t listening, but then you switched to Ariadne, and that seemed to work at least some, so we decided to put it to the test. I told you intentionally that I was going to the Cerbera Cafe that night so you’d follow me, and then I switched into regular clothes and had Nick cuff me in the attic and you came in and...you recognized me. For the first time since early on in the Alps, you actually immediately recognized me. 

“But then you mentioned Agent Crawford and the fight and you still weren’t coherent about matters, so I played along with the fight because I had to even though I honestly had no idea what it actually entailed, and I thought I could use Crawford as a way to get us both home safe. 

“So the masquerade was the next night, which was going to be our cover of escape. You still hadn’t snapped out of it, so I tried prodding a bit more, but everything was interrupted when Nick told me that there were people trying to force their way in. So I got changed and took you up to the roof and we tried to make our escape. 

“But after we fell into the canal and everyone was running by, I realized it’d be easier to just draw them off and let you go on with Crawford, and then I could just come later on.

“But then the next morning, you came back to my house and you were back to calling yourself Persephone and it was like you’d had this relapse and you wouldn’t even sew anymore and each day you just got worse and worse and worse...

“The twenty-first came and we were just going to head out to Jesse and take his plane back, so I came to get you and you just...you were you. Completely you. You screamed it at me and went on your rant about who you were and I can honestly tell you that I’d never been so glad to get screamed at in my entire life.

“Nick knocked you out with some herbal concoction that he’d come up with so that it wouldn’t trigger your body’s nervous system response to standard medical drugs. We didn’t want you to relapse. Jesse met us and we flew home and I brought you back to this apartment and thought up some plausible lie about my actions. Then you woke up, I revealed myself and...well, you know the rest.” 

Kurt blinked, wiping at his eyes, which wouldn’t seem to stop crying. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Blaine snorted. “After what had just happened? ‘Hey Kurt, I know I’ve been lying to you for the past month, but seriously, it’s all because you actually lost touch with reality because of several rounds of forced drugging, but you’re fine now, just believe me’. I’m pretty sure that there’s no way you would have believe me. Besides, I could keep the damage contained to Europe while you could actually recover here.”

“And Jesse was in on it,” Kurt whispered. “God, of course he was.”

He didn’t even notice that he’d slid to the floor and was hyperventilating until Blaine was suddenly in front of him, panicked. 

“Kurt!”

“Blaine, are you lying to me?” Kurt gasped out. “Please, if this is some sort of elaborate--”

“I’m not,” Blaine shook his head. “I promise I’m not, and I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, this is all my fault--”

“Oh my god. _Oh my god._ ” Kurt wrapped his arms tightly around himself and rocked back and forth, trying to choke down a solid breath. He wasn’t able to. “ _Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god_ \--”

He didn’t want to believe it, but fragments of dreams that he’d been having over the past three months came back to him and clicked in with Blaine’s story.

And suddenly things started to make sense. Why he couldn’t remember all of the fight between him and Blaine, or the trial that had convicted him. Also the entire trial in his head had been in English. Shouldn’t some of it have been in Italian? 

And down under at Vespaciano. How had he even heard about that in the first place? And he called them the Casanova gang, but he’d never told Blaine that and so how had Blaine known that he called them that unless everyone called them that? And how was it that he never once had seen Ampelio’s face?

His time spent starving in Venice was a blur and how would he have been able to read Liliana’s add if he wasn’t fluent in Italian? And--

And everything that hadn’t seemed right about Venice, all those questions he’d been ready to scream at Blaine were suddenly at least partially answered.

“Kurt, listen to me. You have to breathe, okay? Breathe. Just breathe.” 

Kurt found himself steered to the couch, sitting diagonally across it in spooning position with Blaine behind him, Blaine’s hand on his chest and moving it up and down with his own breaths. Kurt copied his as best as he could, his heart rate slowly lowering.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Blaine paused slightly. “For what?”

“For snapping me out of it. And for refusing to use the whip. I don’t think I would have ever forgiven you if you had.” 

Blaine just wrapped his other arm around Kurt, hesitantly. 

Kurt had no idea where they currently stood because he honestly needed to sleep the whole thing off and then think about it rationally, but at that point in time, he felt shaky and frayed at all his edges, so he leaned back into Blaine’s embrace and reached up his hands to hold Blaine’s arms. 

“That night I was supposed to leave with Adam, I got to his place early in the morning and there was blood everywhere. Someone wrote ‘Don’t test me, dear Persephone’ on the wall in blood.”

Blaine tensed. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t even know where he was staying.”

“I know,” Kurt said softly. “I mean, I assumed it was Hades at the time, and that terrified me, but after learning that you were Hades...I always tried to blame you for that, but it could never quite stick in my mind.”

“Why’s that?”

Kurt smiled wryly. “You would’ve called me darling, not dear.” 

“So we should add ‘killing Adam Crawford’ to the ‘Whoever’s Stalking Us Is Seriously Twisted’ list.”

Kurt licked his lips. “Actually...there might be some debate as to Adam’s actual existence. Considering I’m the only one who apparently saw him and he seemingly doesn’t exist anywhere, the popular theory is that he’s actually a figment of my imagination. And after what I just heard in the past ten minutes...that theory seems to actually bear some weight.”

“Don’t worry, he’s real,” Blaine said confidently. “I do have a very concrete reasoning for that as well.”

“Care to share?”

“Maybe later. We still have to talk about that.” He gestured across the room.

Kurt glanced over at the painting. “Right. That. Creepiness central.” 

Amazing how much more objectively he could look at horrific things whenever Blaine was around. 

“Can’t we like...throw it out?” Kurt frowned. “It’s kind of putting a damper on the decor. Granted, I’m not entirely sure how to even get it out of here...”

“Kurt, if you can’t think about how to get it out of here, then how the hell do you think it got in?”

Kurt froze, looking at the painting, because yeah, that thing was huge and definitely couldn’t fit in through any of the doors or windows. “Okay tell me, how did it get in?”

“The frame is collapsible, but it looks like the painting was actually just...well, it was painted here.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. It hadn’t been there that time he’d come after the subway--

Which, of course, was when he’d lead whoever was chasing him back to the apartment. 

Perfect.

Just perfect.

But that also meant that it had been painted sometime while he was in Seattle. 

And that was just plain creepy. 

“How does all this scary stuff keep finding me though, like honestly.”

“You’re not the only one to have gotten one,” Blaine said wryly. “I just got mine yesterday.”

“How many people received them?”

“Seven.”

“Any connections?” 

Blaine snorted. “You could say that. My mother, my biological mother, my father, my uncle, my brother, my fiancee, and finally myself.” 

Kurt twisted his head to look back at him. “That’s a pretty specific target group.” 

“You’re telling me,” Blaine nodded.

Kurt leaned his head back against Blaine’s shoulder. “So are we gonna catch this guy, or what?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Do we have any leads, or...?”

“Kurt...” Blaine sighed. “I think at long last it’s time that I told you about my family.”


End file.
